Walking in Legend
by Jen Littlebottom
Summary: The world has changed... The One Ring was destroyed at the end of the Last Alliance, but not all is well with the Third Age. Rohan and Gondor at war, Aragorn as King of Arthedain, and much more. Plus Faramir, Eowyn, Eomer, Halbarad, Denethor, and more
1. Inauspicious Beginnings

Disclaimer: The world and characters belong to Tolkien (even though I've rearranged them quite a bit).  

History and Background: (bear with me)

Our story takes place in the Third Age, about the time that the Ring Quest would have started.  However, in this universe, when Isildur refused to destroy the ring, Elrond took matters into his own hands, resulting in no more ring, and also no more Isildur.  The Elves faded and most passed into the west; Imladris and Lorien have long been deserted, although the Lake-men are said to say that there are still Elves left in the Greenwood.

Isildur's nephew, Meneldil, who was the oldest remaining son of his brother Anarion, became King of Gondor.  Isildur's youngest and only remaining son, Valandil, only a child at the time, eventually became King of Arnor, although by rights the kingship of both Arnor and Gondor belonged to him.  The crown of Gondor, however, would continue to remain in the possession of the heirs of Anarion, rather than those of Isildur.

In the year 860 of the Third Age, when Eärendur, then King of Arnor, died, his three sons all made claims of succession and Arnor was split into three parts: Arthedain, Cardolan, and Rhudaur.  The King of Arthedain, Amlaith, was the oldest son and the true heir of Eärendur, and his heirs all bore the title 'Heir of Isildur'.  It was always known that by right the crowns of both Arnor and Gondor belonged to the descendants of this line.

In the year 2050 of the Third Age, Eärnur, last King of Gondor, died without heir in an attack on Gondor by the Haradrim.   Arvedui, then King of Arthedain, attempted to claim the throne as was his right, but the council gave the crown to Eärnur's Steward, known as Mardil Voronwë, of the House of Hurin.  He was the first of the 'Kings of Hurin's Line', who have continued to rule Gondor until the present day.

In the year 2510 of the Third Age, King Cirion of Gondor gifted Eorl of the Northmen with the lands that would become Rohan, for their aid against the enemies of Gondor; the Haradrim, the Corsairs, and the Easterlings, as well as the Orcs that still bred in the shadows of Mordor, either not knowing or not caring that their master had long since ceased to exist.

More recently, though,  relations between Gondor and Rohan began to sour.  A series of squabbles over minor issues turned to disaster when Thengel King of Rohan, in council at Minas Tirith, drew his sword in angers over an perceived insult in the words of Ecthelion, King of Gondor.  The exact details of what happened next differ depend on which side you ask, but what is known is that Ecthelion fell by Thengel's hand; and Thengel died by the order of Denethor, Ecthelion's only son and now King of Gondor.

Now, in this year, 3021 of the Third Age, the sons of Gondor and Rohan have grown up living with war.  Border skirmishes have escalated these past few years into another full-blown war; one that neither Rohan nor Gondor can afford.  Rohan is the smaller and weaker of the two; Gondor must consider the enemies to the south, always waiting for a chance to strike.  The North-Kingdoms, Rhuduar, Cardolan, and Arthedain, have refused to have anything to do with what they see as an unjust war – on both sides.  The King of Arthedain, one Aragorn, son of Arathorn, speaks for all the North-Kingdoms, and has long tried to forge peace between Rohan and Gondor – to no avail.

If you're still with me, thank you for your patience.  Now, onto the story:

At least the Rohirrim fed their prisoners well, Faramir thought, although he didn't think much of their medical care.  His leg was sure to scar - assuming it didn't end up infected, victim to the surgeon's saw.

That was the least of his worries, though.  He wondered idly if they were planning on using him as a bargaining chip - good luck to them if they were.  Son of Denethor or not, there was a good reason that he'd been stuck attempting to herd Gondor's greenest recruits, farmboys from Lossanarch, towards the enemy.  _It is not your fault.  His brother's voice rang clear in his head.  __You provide him with an easy target, when you speak your mind like that, and you look too much like Mother._

True enough words; in all his years he had not yet learnt to mind his tongue around his father; especially when he knew he was right.  And now he had to turn his thoughts to the war; Denethor might discount the Rohirrim as savages, but whoever had led the army Faramir had faced had revealed a rather startling grasp of battle-tactics, as well as another, even more worrying, development.

For years they had been trying to convince the Dunlendings to join with Gondor.  Ever-stubborn, the Wild Men had preferred to continue their harassment of the Rohirric forces their own way; ambush and sabotage.  But Faramir had seen Dunlendings at the battle, fighting along side Rohirrim as if they were brothers!  To manage that - to bribe or manipulate the Dunlendings to follow them and, almost as difficult, to convince the ordinary Rohirrim to fight with them - somebody was being very clever indeed. 

To make matters worse, the King of Arthedain had responded to Denethor's messengers again.  Faramir hadn't seen the message, but had guessed it's content from his father's rage; Arthedain still maintained that it would deal with neither Gondor nor Rohan unless they wished to meet at the bargaining-table; Cardolan and Rhudaur would follow the lead of Arthedain - Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was ruler of Arnor in all but name now.  No, no help would come from that direction; the North-Kingdoms even sheltered deserters from Gondor's armies, for the Valar's sake.

Gondor was alone, surrounded half by enemies and half by those indifferent to its fate.  Much like Faramir, then.

There was a rustling outside the tent, and argument in the language of the Riddermark, quick and heated.  Soon the flap of the tent lifted, and two Rohirrim entered, obviously high-ranked by their bearing although they still wore battered sets of armour, stained with blood.

"So this is Gondor's princeling?" one said, and it was only by the pitch of her voice that Faramir realised she was, indeed, a woman.  There was no softness to her, and her hair was cut short in a boy's manner.  The other - some relative of hers, by the look of him - just grinned and nodded.

"So it is true then, that the Rohirrim allow their women to fight in battle." he said softly, and was rewarded with a glare from the woman and a snort from her companion.

"You say 'allow', princeling, as if it would make any difference if we attempted to 'disallow' it." he said.  The appellation of 'princeling' which they had decided to bestow upon him was starting to grate; Faramir was probably ten years older than either of them.  "Women of the Riddermark are born with fire in their bellies.  You ought to be careful what you say around them, or they'll eat you up."  He turned back to the woman, changing back to the tongue of the Riddermark  "Seen enough, 'wyn?"

"You were the one who was curious, 'mer" she answered, in the same coarse language, and the two of them ducked back out of the tent, leaving a very bewildered Faramir in their wake.

-----

He slept after a while, learnt how to arrange himself so that the chains that bound him did not cut in quite as much, although it was not a particularly restful sleep.  When someone came, waking him to feed him again, quick and without much care, it was past dusk.  Outside, the camp was moving; he strained his ears to try and work out what was happening.  Packing up, probably.  They would not linger in one place; the Rohirrim had proved time and time again to be harder to pin down than a greased swan, to use an expression his uncle Imrahil was fond of.

He dozed off again, only to wake with a start to find a dark-haired man examining him.  No warrior this one, although he carried a sword.  A  It was not long before his visitors from the morning burst into the tent.  "What are you here for, Gríma?" demanded the man.  The woman said nothing, but kept by the entrance of the tent, hands on the hilt of her sword.  Although Faramir understood Rohirric what he had thought was well enough, of the conversation that followed he had trouble picking out even half.  _my__ prize… our prize, the woman corrected, and then a stream of invective he had no hope of following. __Your uncle… will know… duty to the Riddermark… _Éomundson… _Faramir's heart dropped.  Although he did not know who this Gríma was, Éomund was known, or rather his children were.  Which made 'Mer' Éomer, and sealed Faramir's fate rather effectively.  Faramir had heard grown men claim this mere boy was blessed by the Valar – the Rohirrim themselves called him 'Eadig', the blessed, and those who fought under him fought to the death, and no less._

He also didn't keep prisoners of war.  At the best, Faramir would be given a sword and a challenge – much good it would do him with his leg like this.  At the worst… he shuddered and turned his attention back to the argument. He'd obviously missed something, and he struggled to pick up the threads of the conversation… _they will come to us… I will not… Éomer was angry about something, which did not bode well.  __this__ decision… they will not come… agreement was… Gríma seemed to be having little luck pacifying him, either._

"Enough!" Éowyn was still by the entrance to the tent, hadn't moved, hadn't contributed anything to the discussion until now.  But when she spoke, the others were silenced; Faramir looked on, interested.  Her brother looked to her, he realised, trusted her judgement.  Gríma just feared her.  Her voice was clear and strong; easy to understand.  "They will come to us.  Grima, you are named Wormtongue for a reason; make yourself useful.  Tell them…" She eyed Faramir balefully  "Tell them that we dare not move for fear of detection by the forces of Gondor.  Tell them this is the only safe place.  Tell them whatever you must, to get them here."  Gríma nodded, hurrying out.  Éomer held his sister's gaze for a long while, and then, turning back to Faramir, snarled, anger putting a heavy accent on his Westron "You are lucky you are who you are, princeling."

When her brother turned and left, Éowyn smiled at Faramir.  "Not _that lucky." she said, also using the common tongue.  "But at least you know, should this bargain fall through, that you may earn yourself a glorious death.  On your feet, sword in hand; that is, assuming 'mer doesn't knock your pretty arse into the dust before he kills you."  She swept out, and Faramir released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding._

So he would not die; not yet.  But all the talk of bargains and visitors worried him; who would want anything from him, if not Gondor? And _what _ would the Rohirrim stand to gain from it?


	2. Not Going To Cause Any Trouble

Warning: This chapter contains gratuitous naked Faramir.

Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing and make no profit.

A/N: To answer various questions:  Chicki45 – Saruman and the other wizards wont be in this.  They only came to Middle Earth after the Last Alliance, to keep an eye out for Sauron's return, and in this world there was no need for them.  Ithlien – damn, now I have an idea for an Éomer/Lothiriel subplot.  To everyone else - thanks for reviewing.  Have some naked Faramir as a reward.

The days that followed brought no answers. He tried, once, to strike up a conversation with the man who brought him food and gave his leg the occasional cursory check.  He was not even entirely sure where he was, or what day it was – but even the simplest of questions were answered only with a stony glare, and silence.

Next time they fed him, he was gagged and blindfolded once the meal was done.  That night he could not sleep, never knowing if he was alone or not.  The gag was taken away at his next meal, but the blindfold stayed.  He slept fitfully, waking from his dreams imagining he'd heard someone enter, that he could feel their eyes on him.  In truth he had no idea, and he started to lose track of time, days and nights blending into each other, in the darkness.  Perhaps that was the point, to keep him confused, docile.

Sometimes he dreamt of Gondor, of his brother.  Other times the old dreams came back, and he dreamt of a wall of water, racing towards him with no chance of escape.  The drumbeat, and the downfall…  He woke up shivering in the dark, wondering if it was perhaps a better idea if he just didn't sleep.

Despite his best intentions, he eventually fell asleep again, only to be woken by a bright light and a soft touch.  "I don't think this is necessary, really." she said, and when his eyes decided to focus again he saw Éowyn, smiling softly at him.  "You're not going to cause any trouble."  She stepped back, and nodded to the two guards who had followed in behind her, lugging a large pail of water in between them.  "Up we go." she added cheerfully, and they set the pail down and moved to either side of Faramir, pulling him to a standing position.  Even though he was mostly supported by the guards, and they had propped him up against the centre pole of the tent to boot, his wounded leg complained, and he couldn't help but wince.

At another nod from Éowyn, one of the guards took out a set of keys, jangling, and bent to take the chains from his hands and feet.  It was stupid of him, but he couldn't help it; as soon as the chains were taken away he tried to make a run for it, and only barely managed to take one step before the pain in his leg and the firm grip the second guard had on his arm made escape rather impossible.  Éowyn glared.  "Were you not listening, princeling? _You are not going to cause any trouble._"  The guard seemed to look to her for some kind of signal, and then he was dragged back up to the centre post again, although the chains were not replaced.

The daughter of Éomund circled him.  "Even if you had managed to make it out of the tent, what then? All you would have accomplished would have been to give my brother an excuse."  She did not say an excuse for _what_, but Faramir thought he could guess. She was right, of course.  He should have waited, tried to get a hold of her, the one person in this camp who Éomer wouldn't risk, not even to keep him.  From behind, she reached around him, and he half-expected the blindfold to come on again, but instead it was a strip of leather, wrapping around his throat.  It was not quite tight enough to choke, but tight enough; there was metal there too, and he heard the jingle of chains as she fastened it in place.

"If I were you, Faramir, I would try not to pull at that." She stepped away, smirking; he traced the lines of it from leather back to metal and the complicated lines of what was some kind of lock. Instinctively he pulled at it anyway, testing the strength of the bonds and it _tightened, and did not loosen again.  Shocked, he looked up at her to see that slow, wicked smile, and he thought that he was beginning to understand what motivated Éowyn Éomundscild.  Nothing as simple as revenge, that drove his father, or loyalty to her people, as Boromir was moved by loyalty to Gondor.  It was power that she wanted, and power that made her eyes darken like that as she watched him struggle._

"Clean him, and be quick about it.  Aragorn's cur will be here soon, and he'll want to see our prize."  It was directed at the guards, but she had slowed her words and spoken clearly for Faramir's benefit.  It was hard enough for him to stay upright, leaning on his good leg and trying not to pull at the collar, let alone attempt to hide his shock and dismay; she saw the look on his face and smiled wider.  Either she was lying just to get a rise out of him, or the 'visitors' they'd been speaking of all this time really were from Arthedain.

He cursed silently.  He'd never quite believed his father when he claimed that the North-kingdoms were after the throne of Gondor; as second son, he was often sent to deal with them, and had never gotten any hint of anything of the kind.  Aragorn did seem to speak for the entirety of Arnor recently, yes, and they'd certainly refused to help Gondor in this war in any way, shape, or form, but that didn't mean that… What if it was true?  What then?

The guards were stripping off the tattered clothes that he'd worn ever since the battlefield, throwing his old things, once carefully tailored and emblazoned with the White Tree, into a pile at Éowyn's feet.  When that was done, the bucket of (cold) water came into use; he shivered miserably, although he was glad that they at least washed out his wound again; from this angle it looked as if it would scar, but heal.  She watched, as they scrubbed him down, and he flushed under her gaze.  Damn it, this was set up to humiliate him and he didn't want to let her know how well it was working.

To finish the disgrace, after they dried him off she brought out new things, and had them dress him in the green and white of the Riddermark. The chains went back on before the collar was removed, and he collapsed back to the ground almost gratefully.  There was a commotion outside, and Éowyn hissed something rude in Rohirric.  "Early." she spat, and glared at the guards.  "Leave the princeling for now."  They shuffled out, Éowyn stalking after, and Faramir was left alone to ponder his probable imminent doom.

(Éomundscild =Éomund's Child)

A/N: In the next chapter, Aragorn's messenger and Éowyn get together for a nice, friendly, chat.  Only without the bit where it's nice and friendly.


	3. A Visitor From Arthedain

A/N: After the Random Naked Faramir Interlude (TM), the plot gets back on track as our 'visitor' from Arthedain shows up.

The Lady herself came to greet him; or at least, he was brought to greet her.  Halbarad noted idly that her brother was not in sight; not like the children of Éomund to be separated.  Or perhaps Éomer considered the sword at her side and the guards who flanked her enough to protect his sister.  Particularly since Halbarad had been relieved of his weapons before being led to the encampment.

He frowned.  Aragorn had been attempting to maintain neutrality in this war; the edicts King of Arthedain held weight in the rest of Arnor also.  Valandur of Cardolan was old and without a direct heir and quite willing to let his distant cousin do the talking for him.  His lands adjoined Gondor and he was even more willing, and quite happy, to have Aragorn's forces guarding the bounds of his territory. Belloth, the Queen of Rhudaur, favoured Rohan more than Gondor but cleaved to Aragorn in hope of arranging a marriage between them.  The idea of having Belloth as queen of Arnor personally made Halbarad shudder a little, but Aragorn _did need heirs at some point.  He could only hope they took after their father._

Which left those in Aragorn's service (like Halbarad, for instance), busy with an impossible balancing act.  Thankfully both Rohan and Gondor were too busy with each other (and in Gondor's case, the continuing skirmishes with the Corsairs), to bother with the realms of Arnor Broken.  But war was taking its toll upon both sides, so when a messenger had reached the borders of Rhudaur, bearing news that the Rohirrim believed they had a way of convincing Denethor to agree to parley, then Belloth had jumped at the chance.

She'd also decided to 'let Aragorn the Wise' decide who got to go on this mission.  Halbarad translated that as 'let one of your fools lose their head over this if it happens to be a trap'.  Given the way that Éowyn Scyldcwen was smiling at him, he was beginning to wonder what exactly he had volunteered for.  "My Lady." he said, bowing.  "Will Lord Éomer be joining us?"

"My brother trusts me to handle things, I can assure you.  Sit."  It wasn't so much an offer as a command, and the wooden seat was bare and hard, but then again by the looks of things so was the one that Éowyn was sitting on.  There was a carved wooden horse-head poking him in the back, and he wondered if the Rohirrim really did believe that hard-living made for better warriors.  "Do you bear word from your King, then, man of Arnor?"

He brought out the message, sealed with the stamp of Fornost, on one side of it the crest of Amlaith First-King, and on the other Aragorn's own mark.  "I am Halbarad of Arthedain.  I would remind you, Lady of Rohan, that there is no Arnor anymore, and I can only speak for my King and the people of my own homeland."

She raised an eyebrow, examining the letter; all it said, Halbarad knew, was that he spoke for Arthedain and for its King.  "To borrow one of my brother's more indelicate expressions: horseshit.  I am not a fool nor entirely unaware of the situation in your lands.  We both know that whatever Arthedain does, Cardolan and Rhudaur will follow as a foal its mother."

"Then shall I speak plainly?" he asked, and she nodded, apparently amused.  "Aragorn has been trying to convince Denethor to meet with your uncle for years.  What makes you think that you can do what my King has not?"

In response she turned to one of the guards by the entrance to the tent.  "Bring him in."  She turned back to Halbarad and smiled again, pleased.  "He will come this time, because we will leave him no other option.  I trust that we can count upon the King of Arnor – I'm sorry, the King of _Arthedain_, rather – to provide a suitably neutral location for the council, as well as providing a mediating force to make sure there are no further mishaps."

It would be very poor form, he reminded himself, to hit a woman, even one who was armed and would probably hit back.  But the _arrogance!  He made a mental note to be well out of the way if Belloth and Éowyn ever ended up in the same room; the combined levels of misplaced pride would probably cause some kind of explosion.  Before he could get a hold of his temper enough to make a comment that would not result in a diplomatic incident, the guards brought 'him' in, and his breath caught in his throat._

Faramir had often been a guest in Arthedain, more gentle than his father and often seeming just a little embarrassed at having to deliver messages containing yet another of Denethor's demands.  Halbarad had never gotten to know him that well, but had rather liked him as it was; and he certainly recognised him, even when wearing an ill-fitting Rohirric uniform and slumped over with his hair loose and falling over his face.  "What have you _done!" he gasped.  "This is your plan for convincing Denethor that he should strike a peace-bargain with you?"_

"We have saved him." she stated, calmly.  "His capture was not planned, Halbarad.  He was a prisoner of war, and is better off than most would be under his circumstances.  I can assure you, he is quite well, all things considering."

Halbarad moved off his chair and crouched down next to Faramir, brushing his hair back and wincing at the number of wounds he had acquired.  Eyeing Éowyn suspiciously, he switched to Sindarin to talk to him, suspecting that she did not speak that tongue. "_How have they treated you, son of Gondor?  You can tell me.  I am a friend._"

Faramir looked up at him, about to speak, when Éowyn interrupted, scowling.  "You will speak in Westron, or not at all.  He will be returned to his father when his father comes to meet with us, and he will be returned intact; we are not barbarians.  His wounds were inflicted in battle, nothing more."

"I would like to hear that in _his words, not yours, my Lady.  Forgive my rudeness," and his temper was definitely flaring up again, "but I only have your word that your word is trustworthy."  _

Éowyn glared at him for a moment more and then sat back down in her chair.  "He may speak.  Just not in Sindarin."

"My leg is the worst." Faramir murmured, so low that Halbarad didn't catch it at first, "A spear-wound.  They have bound it and dressed it, though.  And the food is terrible.  Other than that, I am well enough."  He turned to stare at Éowyn.  "Your plan has a flaw.  My father cares far more about his pride than about my fate."

"You are wrong, princeling.  He will not abandon his youngest child." She smirked.  "Especially as Halbarad here, or at least one of his kinsmen, shall be taking our message to Minas Tirith to be announced in a rather public fashion."  She smirked.  "And to make sure that he does not go back on his word, we will be insisting that Arthedain agree to defend us should Gondor attempt to invade again.  Or indeed, to defend Gondor should we attack."

"Do you really think Aragorn will simply acquiesce to all your demands, m'Lady?  You presume much."

"I presume that your King wishes to see the hostilities between our people and Gondor cease.  Actions speak louder than words, Halbarad.  If you do not want to attempt to bring Denethor to parley with us, then we will have no choice but to execute Faramir as a prisoner of war." Halbarad jumped at that threat, even delivered as it was in calm and even tones.  "And war will continue, for Denethor will not bargain with us and we will not surrender.  Our pride demands that."

He sighed, standing.  "Then I will return to Fornost and explain the situation to my King.  I can not promise you, though, that he will agree to all your demands."  He shifted on his feet warily, looking down at the top of Faramir's head.  "And if we are to convince Denethor that you do indeed hold his son captive, I will need to take back some sort of token."

Éowyn pursed her lips but retrieved for him a small dagger, mud on the handle and the scabbard but even from a distance obviously not a run-of-the-mill weapon.  She threw it at him, and he caught it without thinking. "There."  The scabbard was engraved with symbols of Gondor, the hilt inlaid with pearl among silver.  The weapon of a prince, but a soldier's knife all the same.

"I'm surprised you trust me enough to let me have a weapon within the camp."  The guards started to loom closer at that comment, but Éowyn waved them back, chuckling.

"I trust that you are sensible enough to know that trying _anything_ within the camp would be as good as suicide."  She shook her head.  "No, you're not going to cause any trouble."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Faramir flinch just slightly at that comment, and wondered about it.  "_I will do what I can for you._" he said in Sindarin, quickly changing back to Westron before Éowyn could say anything about it.  "I thank you for this token, m'Lady.  I will take my leave of you, and deliver your news to King Aragorn in all haste."  He bowed low, grinning.  She needed him too, after all.  Someone had to take the news back to Arthedain.

"Just go." she snarled, and the guards escorted him out, a fuming Éowyn left behind.  It occurred to him that that possibly hadn't been the smartest thing he'd ever done, but he would simply have to trust that the need to have Faramir intact and healthy would override her temper.  He started to consider how he was going to present the edited version of events to Aragorn, as he saddled up Lagor, who seemed to be far happier with her accommodations than Faramir mostly likely was with his.

"You've got a nice horse.  For a Westman."  Halbarad turned slowly, seeing Éomer staring at him.  "I'm not nearly as trusting as my sister.  If you even think about attempting to betray us, I'll track you down and strangle you with your own entrails."  That said, he turned and stalked back into the main camp, leaving Halbarad behind with his mouth open and his stomach lurching.  Leading Lagor across to the makeshift camp-gate where the guards would hopefully return his sword and bow, he made a mental note to stop volunteering for things, no matter how nicely Aragorn asked.

A/N: Names – Lagor is simply 'swift' in Sindarin.  Valandur of Cardolan takes his name from one of Arnor's Kings – Belloth, who is here because I decided I wanted a Ruling Queen in Arnor, has a name that means 'strong flower'.  Scyldcwen, in Old English, means 'Shieldmaiden' – but 'cwen' can also mean 'queen', while 'scyld' can mean both 'shield' and 'sin'.  Éomer calls Halbarad 'Westman' because Arnor is, or was, more or less due West of Rohan.


	4. Reflections from a Mirror of Two Sides

A/N: As usual, nothing is mine except the rather odd storyline.  In this chapter, a bit of Eowyn, and then we switch to see what's happening on the other side… what, you didn't think Boromir would just ignore the fact that his little brother had gone missing, did you?

The camp held only fifty riders, Éowyn one of seven shieldmaidens among them, and the youngest.  Eomer had insisted on staying with her in order to protect her – no matter how old she got or how many battles she fought, he never seemed to be able to see her as anything other than his little sister.

Hopefully she would not need to fight too many battles.  She had seen far too many friends and kinsmen fall to Gondor steel.  She reached, as she did when she was thinking of these things, for the token Elfhelm had given her, his mother's ring which she wore on a chain around her neck.

They had never spoken of marriage, or anything of the like.  But there was an understanding between them, Elfhelm and her, that if the day should come when peace returned to Rohan, then perhaps – well, Éowyn did not imagine herself much suited for days spent sewing and cooking, but she had upon occasion thought she might some day want to have a daughter of her own, a shieldmaiden like herself.

She had known for a long time that peace would not come, however, unless _someone_ did something.  Now she had the chance to be that someone.  The idea of forcing Gondor to come to the bargaining-table at _her_ demand did indeed have its own appeal.  The idea of forcing them to strike a peace-pledge – with the Westmen a fair enough threat to enforce it – was even better.  Not only would there be peace, but the Rohirrim would be the ones to bring it to the table – the sons of Gondor could come crawling for scraps like the dogs they were.

And when Éowyn's daughter learnt to fight, she would have to content herself with sparring partners and practice dummies – for Éowyn would make sure that there would be no battles for her to bloody her sword.

-----

Boromir's command of Sindarin was not even near that of his younger brother; neither did he speak the tongue of the Riddermark with any great skill.  Nonetheless, his ability to curse in these languages was being put to full use at the moment.

Elphir, the only one of Imrahil's sons who had not made excuses to be elsewhere for the time being, knew better than to interrupt.  He just waited until his cousin ran out of combinations of curse words before he spoke.  "Our forces have regrouped; the wounded are being tended to.  The Rohirrim have retreated, possibly planning another attack, but I have sent patrols out to keep an eye on them.  As you already know, the men under Faramir's command on the southern flank were hit the worst; however, most of the casualties were the green soldiers.  We've not lost too many of our veterans, they didn't reach our supply lines, and the pikemen accounted themselves well.  Really, Boromir, considering the circumstances, we didn't come out of this too…"

"Not too badly?" Boromir interrupted, coldly.  "My brother is either dead or captured, the Horsemen seem to think they can attack us and fade back into the grasslands without consequence – which, for all intents and purposes they can, because they _won_ this one, Elphir.  Where were your patrols before?"

"They ambush and run raids _because_ they have not the strength to fight us head on, not despite it.  They know the terrain, but we have every other advantage."

"I do _not_ want to hear this, cousin."  Boromir grimaced.  "Father is going to be _furious._"

"If I recall correctly," Elphir said, pithily, "it is my uncle's fury that has us out here in enemy territory in the first place."

"You step dangerously close to treason, Elphir."

"It's a family hobby."  Elphir sighed and sank into the commander's chair, ignoring Boromir's glare.  "He is alive, Boromir.  Until the moment you see his body, there is hope.  And we do have something of an advantage here, as well."

"I see no advantage."

Elphir smiled slowly.  "Ah, but I have not finished my reports yet.  It seems that some among the Rohirrim grew a little too bold for their own good.  Their leader did not seem to be fond of the idea of being taken alive, but in the end Gondorian wisdom won out."

"Who?" Boromir asked.

"He's not much fond of the idea of giving us his name yet, either," Elphir said, grinning viciously, "but he wears the insignia of a Marshall of Rohan."


	5. Return to Fornost

Disclaimer: As usual, I own nothing, if you don't count the odd OC here and there and the plotline.

Halbarad was deeply relieved to see the walls of Fornost rising up over the horizon.  After narrowly managing to avoid a side-trip to visit Belloth, he had half a mind to just sink into the nearest bed and sleep for a week.

Duty won out over sloth, but luckily Aragorn was sympathetic to his plight, and let him slouch in a well-worn and well-padded chair to give his report.  "As much as I hate to say it," he finished up, "I think that this might be a chance to see peace forged between our two squabbling neighbours."

"Forced, you mean." Aragorn frowned.  "And us expected to spend all our time sorting out further squabbles about who stepped over the line first when the fighting starts up again.  What do you think of them, these children of Éomund?"

"They frighten me," Halbarad admitted, and when Aragorn chuckled, added, "I'm absolutely serious.  Éomer has the makings of a _very_ good general assuming he doesn't lose his temper and get himself killed before then.  Right now, he's a disaster waiting to happen."

"He's young, isn't he?" 

"Thirty or so, I believe." Halbarad shrugged.  "Not all that young for one of the Rohirrim.  He's absolutely devoted to his sister.  I did get the sense that they were keeping me out of his way for my own good.  For which I am eternally grateful – I like my head where it is!"

"And his sister?"

"Imagine a Rohirric version of Belloth."  Grimacing, Halbarad added, "Now imagine that she carries a sword almost as sharp as her tongue – and knows how to use it."

"Dangerous.  Especially as she seems to be the one behind this little plan."  Aragorn leant back.  "Which, of course, I am going to have to accept, because there is no way I can simply leave the young Prince in captivity.  I do _not_ appreciate being manipulated in this way, but there will be plenty of time to make that clear."

"As long as you do not ask me to deliver that message.  I have no intents of testing the limits of a shieldmaiden's temper."  Halbarad rubbed his temples, sagging back into the chair.  "I could sleep for a week."

"No," said Aragorn, smiling softly.  "I will send another to convey my answer to the Rohirrim."

"Thank you."  Halbarad sunk deeper into the chair.  Maybe he could just go to sleep here.

His relief was short lived, though, for Aragorn added the fateful words "Because I need you to go to Minas Tirith."

Ah, that would be the sound of the last straw.  "No.  Aragorn, _no._  I _detest_ the White City at the best of times.  You know this.  I would rather go back and face a thousand Éomers than have to be the one to tell Denethor what has happened to his son."

"You are the only one who has seen Faramir; you will have to be the one to convince Denethor that the Rohirrim will uphold their end of the bargain.  He's a difficult man to deal with at the best of times_._"  Aragorn sighed.  "You know I would not ask you to do this, cousin, if there was any other way…"

"I hate it when you're right.  You know that?"

"You may have mentioned it once or twice, yes."  Aragorn grinned, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.  "Don't worry, I'll give you enough time to catch up with Lothíriel before you go."

"Wait, wait… she's here?"  Halbarad bolted upright, running one hand through his hair awkwardly.  "When… why… I mean…"

Aragorn was now grinning so widely Halbarad was sure his head was going to split in twain.  "Yes, about a week ago, and because Imrahil figured out that sending her here for a while would both keep her safe and irritate Denethor enormously.  You're _blushing_, Halbarad.  At least this way, I suppose, you wont have to think up excuses to go to Dol Amroth quite so often."

"Oh, hush."  Halbarad allowed himself a soft smile, though, at the thought of the daughter of Imrahil, a sweet, patient creature very unlike the rest of her family.  "I don't suppose she… ah…"

"Red as a strawberry."  Aragorn shook his head.  "And yes, she did ask after you, as a matter of fact."  There was no stopping the smile now – Halbarad found himself unable to frown, even at the thought of braving the infamous temper of Denethor.  "Now, you'd better go clean yourself up.  You'll have no luck wooing her looking like a scarecrow straight out of the fields of Cardolan!"

Resisting the temptation to throw something at his king – which would probably be some sort of treason, not to mention a bad idea given how Aragorn had regularly beaten him soundly in pillow-fights when they were younger – Halbarad simply nodded and took his leave, attempting to be gracious about it.  He could hardly deny that he needed a good clean before he went to speak to Lothíriel – Aragorn might put up with him smelling like horse, but that was no reason to inflict his unwashed self on anyone else.


	6. Would be Easier

Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.

A/N: A tad short this time, and I'm sorry, but the actual plot will get going again soon.

She was watching him; or at least, Éowyn had decided to take up temporary residence in the tent where he was being held.  To all intents and purposes she was ignoring him, focused on a rather shabby-looking book and fiddling with a ring on a chain around her neck, but every now and again he saw her eyes flick sideways.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, then?"  His throat was dry, and his voice, correspondingly, sounded as if he was a hundred years old and taken with the ague, to boot.

Her head turned fractionally towards him.  "This is my camp.  I may go where I like."  She stood, swiftly, eyes narrowing as she watched him, but she did nothing but offer him a drink of water, holding the waterskin to his lips as he drank rather than letting him have the use of his hands.  "You are not as all as I expected you to be."

Such a strange comment that was coming from his captor that he could not think of a response for a long moment.  Finally, he shrugged, saying "I hate to have disappointed you.  What were you expecting?"

Another pause, while she stared at something behind his head.  "I was expecting someone who would be easier to hate."

It was an oddly honest answer, and he felt compelled to ask "Why?" After a moment, he added "Hate is not necessary here.  Or do the Rohirrim not fight against those they only mildly dislike?"

"When my father died, they buried him on the battlefield."  Her eyes were half-closed, her voice soft.  "They brought back only his sword and shield.  The sword was given to Éomer – though at the time he could barely lift it.  The shield was given to me."

"An old Rohirric custom?" he asked, wondering exactly how old she had been at the time – perhaps as young as he had been when he lost his mother.

"No."  She bowed her head, her voice rich and dark and full of sorrow, and not for the first time Faramir thought that if things had been different, he might have called her beautiful.  "A relatively new one.  The point being, princeling, that I have sworn to protect my people, and I will.  You are merely the means to an end, nothing more."

"Then there is no need to hate me." he said softly, and she drew back as if his words burned.

"Perhaps not."  She stood, and by her tone of voice Faramir guess that she considered the conversation over; the lamp she'd brought with her to aid her reading flickering and sending shadows dancing across her skin as she shifted, preparing to go.  In that moment Faramir changed his mind, although nothing, he supposed, would come of it – she was not beautiful like Lothíriel was, or as he remembered his mother being; but she _was_ beautiful.  "Still," she added, interrupting his contemplations, "I think it would be easier if I hated you."


	7. His Name Is

A/N: And I had this on my hard-drive and lost it, and only just now found it again.  D'oh!  As usual, none of it belongs to me, please don't sue.

His father gave the outward impression of utter calm as Elphir made his report.  Only to those who knew him well would the signs be apparent – this was merely the calm before the storm.  Denethor's temper was the worst of his traits, and upon occasion the most prominent of them.

Boromir could read him better than anyone, and he saw both anger and fear in his father's eyes when he heard of the fate of Faramir.  Elphir droned on, obviously trying to space out the worst of the news as best he could.  "Enough!  Son of Imrahil, do you have _nothing_ but bad news for me?"  It was Elphir to whom the question was addressed, but Boromir answered Denethor anyway.

"He is alive, father.  I know it."

The King's expression softened a little.  "I trust your judgement, Boromir, but I do not trust the enemy."  He frowned.  "If only the Osgiliath-stone was still intact, we might be able to find him.  The Anor-stone focuses too much upon its Northern kin, and I have no interest in the doings and comings and goings of Aragorn and his hangers-on."  He grimaced.  "That upstart Northerner sent a message through the Palantir today – another of his messengers is coming here, although why he could not tell me what he wanted over the stone, I have no idea."

"We do yet have one advantage I have not mentioned." Elphir said softly.  "We did not leave that battlefield _entirely_ empty handed."

"Oh?"

"We managed to capture a prisoner – one of their Marshalls.  He's not much of a talker, but I do not think that matters.  He may be enough to ransom Faramir from the Rohirrim."

Denethor considered this, smiling.  "And what is the name of this Marshall of Rohan?"

"We don't-" Elphir started, but was interrupted by Erchirion, who had snuck it, as was his wont, without fanfare or introduction.

"His name is Elfhelm."  There was a pleased smile on his usually expressionless face; Boromir tried not to let his distaste show – there were spots of blood on Erchirion's tunic, not many, but enough for him to guess how his cousin had come by his information.  "Elfhelm of the East-mark."

----

"We will reconvene in Rhuduar – closer for you, and more neutral, I think, than Fornost." Aragorn said, walking with Halbarad down to the stables.  "Alagos left to visit the Rohirrim this morning; I hope that he finds Faramir in as good a condition as you left him."

"I think he will."  Halbarad frowned, thinking of his visit to the Rohirrim camp again.  "They are not fools – or at least not most of them – and they need him for this plan of theirs."  He grimaced.  "The problem will be convincing Denethor of that."

"He will expect your arrival, at least – I spoke to him via the Stones, but thought it best that the exact nature of the message remained obscure, at least for the moment."  Aragorn paused, looking thoughtful.  "He seemed distracted – I suspect he already knows that his son is missing, possibly that he has been captured.  There has been plenty of time for word to have gotten back from the battlefield."

"Ai, and I trust Denethor about as far as I can throw him – but that does not mean that I will not help him get his son back."  Grinning, Halbarad added, "Although I do not think he will like the terms."

"Just come back to Rhuduar in one piece.  Your mother will kill me if I lose you."

"You make it sound like misplacing a tunic…" Halbarad retorted, but he quickly sobered.  "I suppose I should go then."

"Go, go.  Valar watch over you, for Eru knows you'll need it."  Not exactly the standard send-off, but Halbarad rode away with a smile on his face, praying that the weather stayed clear.  The last thing he needed was a storm between him and Minas Tirith.

A/N: Erchirion is not evil, promise. He's just… very protective of his cousins.


End file.
